The Baby Bargain. Peggy Nicholson
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the beach, drink too many margaritas, take a lo-o-ong siesta every afternoon.” She arched her back and smiled up at him then, and hooking an arm around his neck, leaned backward. “Want to come with me?”
If there hadn’t been so many strings attached…Rafe had shaken his head regretfully, resisting the urge of both gravity and nature to follow her down on the cushions. “June is branding month, moving the cows up from the home pastures…” And he was a full-time father for one last summer, before he could cut loose.
She pouted prettily. “What if I waited till July?”
“I don’t think you should wait for me,” he’d said in all truth. Any woman who dreamed of starting a second family with him would have a long, long wait, indeed.
He’d made his excuses and left soon after that, though it had been a hard-won retreat. Sensing his cooling, Mitzy had redoubled her efforts to fan his flames. But knowing she wouldn’t thank him tomorrow if he took what she was offering tonight, he’d politely declined—and gained no gratitude for his self-control. He winced, remembering her final tearful reply as he stood shuffling on her doorstep, hat in his hands.
“Thanks? Thanks for nothing, cowboy!”
“Well, damnation, what was I supposed to do?” he now asked the night and the mountains. His truck was mounting the last rise of the county road that twisted up the valley past Suntop.
He’d given nothing tonight, taken nothing. Felt nothing now but shame and frustration and emptiness. A man felt nothing but small when he failed to give a woman what she needed, wanted. And as for his own wants—He thought of that handful of condoms in his wallet and groaned aloud with embarrassment. If he hadn’t needed both hands for steering, he would have yanked them out and tossed them to the winds!
He reached the main gate to the ranch, and, as his truck turned under the big name board that arched overhead and rumbled across the cattle guard and onto his own land, Rafe heaved a sigh of relief. At least here on Suntop, everything was simple.
As he drove the last half-mile up to the manager’s house, his eyes automatically swept the pastures to either side, his mind cataloguing the state of the grass—greening up nicely since they’d moved the yearlings last week. The condition of the fences—a post on the right looked wobbly, tell Anse tomorrow. He braked as a whitetail deer soared over the right fence, touched once, twice on the roadway, then flew away over the left into darkness. He brought the truck to a halt and waited, and sure enough here came a second, then a third, fourth and fifth. A fawn raced frantically along the barbed wire, calling, and one of the does leaped back the way she’d come to meet it.
Rafe drove on—then let out a grunt of surprise as he topped the last rise and saw Zoe’s Mustang.
Must have just arrived, he realized as he parked beside it, outside the back door. She’d yet to shut off her headlights, and the passenger door swung wide. Great. Much as he loved his daughter, she wasn’t the sort of company he’d had in mind tonight. And given his mood, he’d sooner get over his frustration alone, with a cold beer and a good book by the fire, than be forced to sit in the kitchen, eating a bowl of ice cream, while Zoe quizzed him in cheerful detail about his big night out.
“Daddy!” Zoe leaped down the porch steps to the yard, with the dogs, Woofle and Trey, bounding at her heels. “What are you doing back?”
“Called it an early night,” he said, walking around to her door to close it. As he leaned in to turn off her lights, he saw the bags of groceries crowding the seat and the floorboards. He scooped up the nearest four and straightened. “You’re supposed to be over at Lisa’s,” he noted.
“She, um…got sick. Flu, I guess. It seemed smarter to not stay over. So I swung by the grocery store, then came back.” Zoe reached for one of his bags. “Here—give me that one.”
“I’ve got it.”
She tugged it out of his arms. “This one’s got the eggs. There’s a really heavy one with lots of cans. If you’d get that…”
“Sure.” He followed her up the steps to the porch, the dogs surging delightedly around their feet, celebrating this reunion as if he and Zoe had been gone a month instead of hours. “Woof, sit.”
The Airedale dropped on the stoop, stub tail wagging, while the jealous Border collie, hearing a command, spun on her furry length and shoved out the kitchen door for her own—just as Zoe stepped up over the threshold from the mudroom.
“Watch it!” Arms full, Rafe lunged helplessly toward her, then stopped short as she tripped over the dog and went sprawling headlong. “Zoe!” He set his bags down. “Baby, are you—”
“I’m fine.” She pushed herself to her elbows, laughing, as the collie bathed her face with apologetic kisses. “Stop, Trey! Back off!” She curled her long legs under her and sat, as Rafe dropped on his boot heels beside her. Then her smile vanished, and her mouth rounded to an “Oh” of dismay.
“You’re hurt! Where?” He ran his hands down her slender arms. She’d broken her wrist years before in just such a fall. Not yet grown into her legs, she was always tripping, still clumsy as a foal.
“N-no, I…” She was staring beyond him at the cans and boxes that had scattered across the floor. Her eyes switched to his face and she gave him a shaky smile. “I’m fine, Daddy, really. Perfectly fine.” She started to rise. “If you’d go get the rest of the groceries, I’ll—”
“You’ll sit till you catch your breath.” Rafe glanced around for a chair, stood to get it. He scanned the spilled groceries, seeking the carton of eggs she’d mentioned. A blue box had tumbled nearly to the stove. As the words on its label registered in the back of his mind, his gaze stopped. Swung back. And locked on.
“Um, Daddy?” she said in a tiny quaver as he crossed the room.
He could hear the blood thumping in his ears. Those words couldn’t say what he thought they’d said.
What they really said.
Impossible. He straightened, holding a pregnancy test kit.
“What’s this for?” he asked in a voice that didn’t sound remotely like his own.
THE DUDES in Aspen Cabin and Cottonwood Cabin, who had driven over to the Indian cliff houses at Mesa Verde National Park for the day, had returned, tired, sunburned and happy—and an hour and a half later than they’d promised.
By that time Dana had assumed they’d stopped to eat in town. Recklessly switching her menu at the last minute, she’d decided that Sunday would be Barbecue Night, instead—you really needed a crowd out on the deck to make it a festive occasion. She’d told Sean to scatter the coals and let the fire die out in the outdoor grill, while she’d whipped up a tomato-and-onion quiche with a spinach salad for her remaining guests, the two sisters from Boston. They were perpetually fussing about calories, anyway, so let them eat light for once.
But no sooner had Dana pulled the quiche from the oven than the truants had trooped in, appetites raging, consciences shameless, innocently expecting a hot, home-cooked meal to materialize out of thin air.
“They’re brats,” she confided to Petra in the privacy of her kitchen. “Could even teach you a thing or two, sweetie, but don’t you listen.”
No fear there. Utterly absorbed in a game of Follow the Leader with Zorro, the cat, Petra scuttled across the linoleum, rump high, diaper askew. “Ca, ca, ca, ca!” she declared, reaching for Zorro’s tail, as he leaped up to the safety of a chair tucked under the kitchen table. Zorro whisked the endangered prize out of sight, then stepped serenely onto the next chair and sat to lick a paw.
“Cat, that’s right,” Dana crooned absently while she sliced the quiche into cocktail-size bites and arranged them on a platter. This, two bottles of wine and a bowl full of cherries, should keep her guests amused for the next twenty minutes or so.
But what then? Think, Dana.
She